


Lancaster Bay

by Deadfield



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: I’m mostly flexing my writing muscles for the year, M/M, Maybe I’ll draw stuff for it, This story isn’t really romance based so don’t have that idea really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 04:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12357669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deadfield/pseuds/Deadfield
Summary: When the world police had finally detained the Junkers, Roadhog had come to terms with their adventure ending, and advised him to let go and move on. But when they locked Junkrat up, They killed  the Junker in him, forcing him to resurrect something old and long forgotten to find them a way out. Junkrat was dead, and now Jamison Fawkes has risen in his wake to find a way home.





	Lancaster Bay

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a compilation of ideas I’ve had for a while, in story form. I will probably be completing this, but don’t expect it to be long. Also your feedback would work wonders for my composition.

He was supposed to be on watch when they caught them.

The outback, despite the content of radiation that pulsed like an April Heatwave through the sands, was still as deadly as it was empty, especially when a bounty so frivolous was placed upon your head like a crown of thorns. Bounty hunter and just plain lunatics had come end in end with blade or bullet in hand, treachery in their eyes and on their lips as the blade was brandished at their mercy. Rat would put on a show of movement and pseudo fear, scampering around before slipping his hands down his pants and grabbing his testicles in disrespect while Hog hooked the poor son of a bitch and blew away their midsection. Sometimes they came in small hordes and were all blown to smithereens in unison, Jamie’s traps creating a wafting smell of smoke and blood in the air that mixed like Clorox and pine sol. They were safe, and with safet was the breeding of comfort, sweet comfort that makes you forget the fact that the only thing that was more unforgiving than the outback herself, was the bad karma they had created for themselves. So like any other night, rat set his traps and found himself somewhere to sleep just far enough out of the range of hogs snoring.

But something had gone wrong. Horribly wrong.

His traps had failed him. He didn’t know how but something he had created had failed. Perhaps it was the rise of the machines all at once, a rebellion so sweet it’s placed on the tip of his tongue like a coup-De-grace of metal and mutiny, and a creator of many is faced with restraining bounds on every piece of flesh he could feel that wasn’t his balls. But he knew that want the case, he was a genius. But they had found somebody smarter, somebody who could disable all of Rat’s security measures in one fell swoop. They had gotten the drop on them, blue and white uniforms and everything. They surrounded the both of them first, turning them away and reading their rights. 

They held him down and strapped him to some fucked up gurney, a metal something shoved in his mouth that forced him to bite upon plastic to keep him from even conjuring a peep in his bonds, while Hog was placed in something far more horrific, a brace that held him at the neck with a setting that moved with him, preventing sharp or expansive movements and threatened him with a shot to the head at his behest.

He knew Hog. He knew Hog was strong enough to tear them all to pieces, wring their necks again and again. He could snap his bonds in two, and swing man and machine to the moon, but when he craned his neck from his gurney to look into his bodyguards, no, his partner's eyes, he saw a catharsis, a slow trickling exhaustion that seemed to radiate from his face as to tell Junkrat that their holy vestments had failed them, and the long ride was at an end. Rat didn’t like that. He didn’t like that one bit. It wasn’t over until he said it was over! It wasn’t over until nothing was left of him but a stain on the ground, wether it be dirt or mulch. He began to rattle with anger as he thought about it, moving more and more. But the second he started to wobble and growl and snarl in protest, something was pressed into his neck and he felt everything happen at once. 

—

When Junkrat came to he was still confined, but the gurney was gone and his hands and feet, both fleshy one and metallic one had been bound together with the cuffs they only used for the notorious assassins and the most cracked of the masterminds. He immediately made a mental comment on how it was a Little overboard, but kept it to himself The entire room was deep blue but dimly lit, a cell with a plasma barrier for a door that told him he was imprisoned or at least in the process of beginning his incarceration. He furrowed his brow deeply and glared out the blue barrier unto nothingness, because sure! Having a great view of the wall would calm his nerves. It would de fray the mystery and unknown of what would come next. He grimaced again at the situation, thick eyebrows cutting green eyes thin with a bitter gaze. It was done.the show was over and the rat had been caged. Had he been a weasel he could have sleuthed his way out, but in the end he was a rat and had been scooped back into the pen. He was a resourceful rat, one that had learned and watched with eyes of frost and seafoam, but in the end he was at the ends of the will of the covenant, and no matter the conjuring of whatever science he could control was getting him out of these cuffs. These were the ones that even if you managed to break your wrist, you weren’t wiggling out of. His leg instead of being shackled at the ankle, had been bound above the knee, limiting his movements beyond sitting up or the occasional wiggle, and something was strapped around his neck, a collar or something. He didn’t have a mirror, he couldn’t tell. He was looking more like an “ironrat” than a Junkrat, and it wasn’t a great look either.

So in his whimsy, rat let’s the only part of him that can run free run, and his mind scrambles and races and hurdles and flees, and once it gets to where I needs to be, he assessed and analyzed the situation. He had no clock, no time or no sun to gauge how long he had been out,he could have been out for as little as two hours, or even two years!

No. Not two years. No tranquilizer lasted that long. Nothing he could think of at least. He suspected the ball had been thrown somewhere between two and six hours, provided he was only tranquilized once, and doing the math in his head meant that it since it was barely two am when they had been caught, it was realistically between four and eight in the morning, but god knew where in the world he was. The air was all filtered and conditioned and the lack of a window forbid him from even considering the possibility of calculating temperature and cross analyzing it with any data he could reference with it. Bummer.

So he moves on.

The architecture of the building was the same as any maximum security prisons (not that he had been to one) and it was a full gray and blue. Perhaps an old overwatch prison? Not if they were still in Australia. Overwatch never made it out that far. Not usually. Maybe he had been sent somewhere cool. Like Tokyo! Or New York! Or Rio! He giggled at the thought. Oh the thought of the explosions in the city brought so much glee to his tired mind.

His fantasy was ended with the sound of a plasma gate powering down, and two omnics entering his space. They were new clunkers. Fresh off the assembly lines hot molten metal womb.1 One Grade C security type by the looks, and one facilities and management types. These were the ones that weren’t sentient, but could still fuck you up enough to make you think they were real. 

In any circumstance, Junkrat would kick and hiss and scream at them,crush their metal fingers and throw something at their heads, but his restraint was only met with blank eyes as they rounded him into a chair and strapped him in, hands cuffed between his legs and neck pressed against the back of the chair.

They took him down a hall and to the right, into a lift that was made of carry the incarcerated. There were no clocks on the wall,or a single window in that he could see, further making him feel like an isolated little bug in his prison of steel. 

When they got off the elevator, they pushed him down a hall and to a woman waiting in a brightly lit room.

She had blonde hair, natural like his tucked beneath a beret and a standard uniform shirt and slacks with a light green camisole over her uniform shirt that had her name tag pinned to it. It started with a Z,but he couldn’t read it in time before the omnics jammed their fingers in his mouth and pulled out the plastic that had been muzzling him.

He took the liberty to lick his lips and hack a bit, looking up to the woman with tormenting eyes as he went to speak, yet she was quicker.

“Fawkes….Jamison?” She pronounces his name as if it was difficult to say in the first place.You have a sheet longer than I’d care to read so I’m going to make this clear. This is my prison and when I say my prison, I mean, my prison.” She says almost monotonously, emphasizing the fact that she was the warden. “And you are…..criminally insane and a multitude of other things.” She checks back to her keyboard, paging through paragraph of offense upon offense and so on and so forth.

“You’re under my jurisdiction and if you ask me, they went a little too easy on you for more than forty counts of terrorism, thievery, and whatever else you managed to do all over the world. To think a junker could do that much damage...” she trails off and turns around to her computer, Junkrat still trying to muster the voice in his throat to say something.

He opens his mouth but she beats him for the second time. “Behave and keep quiet, and your time here will be....nice. As nice as it can be for somebody like you.” She begins. “This is no asylum. And I am not here to fix you, or rehabilitate you. I’m here to make sure you aren’t out there, blowing up the innocent for a laugh.” She types something into her computer. “If and when I decide to let you go, which is a harsh “NEVER” at the moment, you will be such a different person, the concept of breaking the law will make you wet yourself.” Shes smug. Her German accent and shifty eyes make it more apparent. He doesn’t like her. He doesent like her one bit.

“The fuck am I anyway?” He finally manages to break out. Her eyebrows raise upon hearing her voice for the first time, but she goes back to her regular look in seconds.

“Nobody's coming to save you. So it doesn't matter. Now I can be your friend or your enemy while you’re in here Mister Fawkes,” she’s diverted the conversation back to her authority, he mentally jots that down. 

“Cooperate through these routines, and I’ll make sure you aren’t in solitary confinement for more than a month.” Bribery? Is she bribing him? He’s confused but intrigued. What a great way to start this off Junkrat supposed. He decides to level with her, even though he had no business doing so.

“How long am I gonna be in there if I don’t play nice?” He inquires almost tauntingly. She takes a look at her clipboard and then peers back to him with butter but smug eyes.

“Long after your next birthday. Your choice.”

That shut him up real quick. 

He had to consider his options as a person in the situation that he was in. Under a circumstance of normality he would antagonize and create enough of a ruckus to create some opening for himself, and amiss the chaos, blow himself a hole to somewhere safe. But he was at her mercy. He was blind and naked in the middle of nowhere, at least mentally, and unfortunately, he couldn’t conjure an explosive or even a small shank from thin air. He would have to do like Hog told him excessively, and play it cool. At least to the best of his ability. 

“So I tell you what.” He says a little more agonizing than he would have liked. “I play it cool and I don’t get you fired, and you don’t put me in solitary!” His enthusiasm is only matched with his wit. Frayed and a bit crooked but working nonetheless.

She cuts her eyes deep and true in his direction, a simple blue becoming a blade pressed along his lifeline. Perhaps he had misspoke....

“Mister Fawkes you’re VERY lucky as is that the death sentence had been outlawed just a couple months before because when they caught you? They were going to kill you.”

“Who's they?”

“-And you should know so much better than to try and bargain with me...ESPECIALLY when you’re at my MERCY.” Her voice is raised and some of her hair seems to float in front of her face. He shrinks a little, as comically as possible with his fetters keeping him in place. “Say anything else and I promise you I’ll have you in solitary until Christmas.”

“That’s not so bad!”

“NEXT Christmas.”

 

That shut him up real quick.

—

 

There was a lengthy intermission between words, and by the time the two omnic guards came back to Junkrat’s cell, he had been half asleep in the seventh most uncomfortable position he could muster. These two were much tougher than the first ones, one holding a lead that held his cuffs and the other, most likely armed seemingly burning a hole in his back with their eyes. He knew better than to protest at this point, but the underlying feeling of the cage around him was seemingly becoming more and more hostile,ESPECIALLY with the omnics around. But he had to be a good boy. He had to be good and be sweet and nice because that’s how he was going to get out of here and find Hog. Wherever he was.

They led him to a room within a room, all white with a glass divider between one part and the other. There were two humans in white suits that made them look more like hazmats than anything, and he turned his nose up to them as they began to inspect him.  
They held his shoulders as they unlocked his bonds and he immediately felt more free, but could tell they were on the highest alert. One wrong move and he was stir fry. Rat flavor.

They ordered him to strip, and he immediately felt his blood run hot and then cold. All eyes on him as the boot came first. The boot had been special. From his favorite pair of boots before he lost his lefts and it had served him well. Next was his harness showing off deep tan lines along his shoulders and back. You could still see the freckles if you looked past all the ash and discoloration. He’d forgotten he’d had those. Next came the shorts, a quick and prideful swipe to nudity. They didn’t have underwear in junkertown. Commando or die he always said. He had to admit he wasn’t used to seeing himself naked in the reflection of the glass, and it was almost surprising to see what he had become, a thin something with a plumage of yellow hair where it wasn’t singled off,twisted flesh near his knee and his arm where they had been amputated. It was all a sight to bear.

“The leg and the arm too.”

“What?” He snaps, feeling his blood pressure rise. “Whattaya need the leg and the arm for?” He hisses defensively. 

“The leg and the arm. Now.” He says bitterly, ignoring Junkrat’s protests. They reach for the connector on the leg and Junkrat takes a moment to inhale as they steal it away from him, forcing to rely on the omnic for support before they both grab him by his underarms and practically drag him into the room behind the glass. 

The omnics leave and the men in white take their place, and the door seals shut with a deafening airtight shuck. Junkrat look's around for something, sitting with his back to the floor as he watches the man pull out of the wall, something with a handle and a cord and turn it towards him.

 

It’s hot water. A little too hot for his liking, pressurized through some rapid fire shower head that almost hurt a little. He squirmed and howled against the water, thrashing about until one of the men came over and held him down, arm against the back of his neck and began to rub him down with a sanitation fluid. All down his chest and along his arms, the hot water and the gloves hands pressing down to his nether regions and giving them a generous soaping and dare he say, fondling before blasting it with water and scrubbing his inner thighs and one good leg until there was no more ash left. They stopped the water for a moment and picked him up by the arm nub, making him flinch. The skin had been scarred and gone raw, a mix of blood, dirt and ash all in the area, same with his knee. So they flipped him in his side, and pressure washed his raw and rimey nub of an arm and a leg until the water cleared. He hoped that the water covered the tears, because it didn’t cover the howling.

They flipped him on his back and began working along his rear, some muffled words and then a spray as they began to press inside of him, Glover fringes searching his insides in the world's roughest possible cavity search. But he was virile and sensitive and hoped they couldn’t see his peaking erection as they pressed into him. He was embarrassed, flustered beyond belief even. They handled him like a slab of meat. Rough and gripping his thighs and spreading them apart again, examining each and every inch of him from his belly button to the glans of his dick before moving to clean beneath his nails and inspect them to make sure he had nothing beneath his fingertips.

They hosed him down again, and then left him there to dry, a warm brisk air blowing the moisture away from his skin. He had to admit this had to be the cleanest he had been in a while, and the concept of having skin not blanketed in soot was nice. He had forgotten that he had so many scars and nicks and freckles and moles that he made a game of rediscovering himself in the reflective of the mirror until the men came back.

This time they held him down more roughly, wrestling him upward and dragging him outside into a chair, still nude and wretched his head back.

“Be easy! You can only pull my hair if-“

He’s silenced with a punch to the eye. 

They hold his head back again and he hears the shaver starting, before it presses to the back of his head and tears through the knots and the tangles and god knows what that managed to get into his hair during his never ending travels, Frigid eyes counting as he watched strand upon strand of his mane powder his shoulders and the floor. It could almost bring a lesser tear to his eye, watching something he made, something he thought was cool just be roughly stolen from him at the ends of a shaver and a prison sentence, but he knew he couldn't do anything about it, just like he couldn't do anything when they stole his arm and leg away from him. He just needed to bite his tongue and bide his time and-

He's interrupted with the harsh tug of something on the back of his head. "Watch it!" He hisses, knowing better than to say anything, but speaks anyway. "Ya shavin’' my head, or slicin' my skull open?"

They ignore him and go back to getting the small spots behind his ears, and squaring off his sideburns.

 

\----

The next room they take him to looks more like a pediatrics office rather than anything that belonged in a prison. There were two people in there, no, three, two people in distinct nurses outfit and a guard with a gun, this one human. They stood him up the best they could with one foot and a makeshift crutch that seemed to show up out of nowhere, and measured him, fondled him, and stuck some medical doohickeys down his throat and up his ass. By the time they were finished, he was sitting there in the cold of the doctors office, still nude and exposed, only the guard there for any sorts of company. It was a cold type of silence, the type that was thick and heavy in the air and seemed to reek of something foul, something evil, and it seemed even dense enough that if you ran a knife through the air, a swath would be cut through it. Under a normal circumstance he would find some way to entertain himself at the officers behest, perhaps antagonize him enough for some chaos to ensure, but he remembered the look that Roadhog gave him when they were apprehended and decided against it. Instead he brought his eyes to the tan lines on his shoulders and counted the freckles that he remembered he had on each side four times over until the creak of an automatic door told him that somebody had entered.

The two nurses were back, one carrying a prosthetic arm and a prosthetic leg. They weren't his, the blue and white of a color scheme told him that much, and they were bland, most likely government issued. The hand was as simple as a reactive prosthetic could be, small shellings of cut plastic and metal in the shape of an ordinary arm that reached to a ball joint, and again to the wrist. The hand was about the same size as his, the inside and palm having a different material, perhaps to make it feel a little more human. The leg was the same, though the ankle was adjustable for shoes and for some reason it had individual toes rather than just a foot shaped piece of metal.

"The government BY LAW is obligated to allow you to use these, but that does not make them yours." The lady began, adjusting one of the joints before closing in on him. "If you're caught doing anything suspicious, the warden can and most likely WILL have them taken away, and you'll be in a wheelchair, if they're even that nice to you." She says with business in her voice, before seizing the nub of an arm and slipping the blue prosthetic on, Junkrat feeling the small discomfort of cybernetics activating around his arm and then again as they situated themselves around his leg.

It was an odd, discomforting type of feeling that he wasn't used to feeling because rarely did he take of his old arm and leg, and the feeling of two limbs that he was able to use becoming a part of him all over again. 

The second nurse seemed a lot nicer than the first, asking him to stand up and see if it needed any adjustments, and gave him the correct protocol of use, care and cleaning. She handed him some clothes, a blue short sleeved shirt with a scratchy inseam, and a pair of pants that hung off his ass if he didn’t string them correctly in the front. He caught himself in the mirror of the room, nude and gangly with his ribs portending from beneath his skin, an odd combination of bony, and lean from living from whatever the outback could muster. He shivers at his own form for but a moment, elegance of the prosthetics being replaced with something alien, something odd attached to his body, unlike the ones he had made and tuned himself. His attention is grabbed by an impatient nurse who was repeating herself for the third time.

When she was done, they sat him down again, and pressed an alcohol pad to his arm, a then, a needle full of something he wasn't too sure on. 

That was the last thing he remembered before his second blackout of the day. 

\---

The room he woke up in was nicer than the first one, even if it was "Solitary confinement" or whatever they called it. There was a small cot on the floor with a thick scratchy blanket and a shitty little pillow. The cot itself was barely big enough for him, and was welded into the floor so he couldn't pull it up, but it was comfortable enough for him to not want to get up immediately, but his curiosity of his new room was more than enough for him to want to know what the hell was going on. 

There was a chair, which was more of a metal stool that was attached to the floor with a metal counter-top across from it, making a makeshift desk that had been pieced into the room. Across from it was a toilet, and a sink that had been built into the wall, with a small window, about four to six inches in the small area between his desk and his bed. on the opposite end there was a large metal container, with clear plastic and a button on the side, leading him to believe it was a shower or something. There were two lights that sanctioned on the east and west sides of the wall, neither he could turn on or turn off at his leisure. There was a small book he didn't care too much about on the desk next to his bed, and a spare set of clothes identical to the ones he wore beneath a small indent in his bed next to a pair of slip-ons and socks. 

The small opening in the wall gave little a breeze to outside air and he could see trees in the distance, and maybe even hear rushing of water? He wasn’t sure. If he was on the shore that meant that there was traffic to get on and off wherever he was, under the presumption that it was an island. If it was just a forest and his mind was playing tricks on him, he had ample forest cover to shade himself from whatever they would manage to send after him. But he had to be careful, he had to be concise and for once, listen to Hog’s advice. Hog was smart, he was probably the same thing going on in his head. But he wasn't with Hog now and had to play out to his smarts, to his brain that could build and destroy and build again.

For but a moment he caught a reflection of himself in the cold reflective plastic of the shower door. His short shaven hair, only with a small tuft on the op, and the dark circles beneath his eyes that seemed to jitter back and forth. His lanky, almost bony form, covered in a stiff green fabric that seemed to almost not fit him. The pants that could barely stay on his hips, and one foot organic, the other one, inanimate. 

He wasn't junkrat anymore, they had taken that away from him, as much as he didn't want to admit it, and in the scourge and sourness of it all, they made him something else. Something that was crazy and bizarre, but all of that, in a shell of collection and deception. They had taken Junkrat away from the world, but in their ignorance, they had created something that had seemed to be long lost to the world. They had made him Jamison Fawkes again. The Jamison Fawkes from before the meltdown. From before the junkers. The one that had been robbed of an arm and leg before he was done growing up, and maybe part of himself with it. 

They had killed Junkrat, but brought Jamie back to life. 

 

He smiles at himself in the reflection in the plastic. 

 

What a bad choice they had made.


End file.
